Fred Khumalo writes one of the country?s more entertaining and lively newspaper columns, but sadly the prose in his memoir 'Touch My Blood' translates uncomfortably from page to stage.

Besides the venue?s rear house lights going down only halfway through the afternoon?s performance and poor vocal projection on the part of some actors, the piece itself never really gets into its groove.

This is surprising, especially since director James Ngcobo is renowned for his ability to take a written tale ? such as Es?kia Mphahlele?s The Suitcase and Wole Soyinka?s The Lion and the Jewel ? and make it come alive on the stage.

Khumalo?s account of growing up in a Durban township in the 1970s and 1980s has retained much of his descriptive prose, but this does not always play out with ease on the stage and the actors often come across as stilted and unnatural.

But the staging is also somewhat uninspiring: Nadya Cohen?s set is sparse, with minimal props apart from some typewriters, desks and chairs. This approach works when the material and the performances are sufficiently riveting to carry the show on their own, which is not the case here.

Connection lost

This coming-of-age play has a circular structure, starting at a certain point in Khumalo?s young adulthood, rewinding to his childhood years, and then progressing chronologically to the point at which it started. Two actors portray the youthful Khumalo, with the remaining cast lending support via a variety of roles.

Given the ambitious name Vusisizwe, meaning ?he who is going to rebuild the nation?, Khumalo experienced interesting formative years, and his growing pains, anger and conflict over apartheid injustices do surface effectively in nuggets on the odd occasion in the play. However, these interludes are disjointed and fail to drive home their messages with force and impact.

For instance, a key dramatic moment was diluted when the actor could not be heard because his words were drowned out by the tapping of a typewriter ? meant to evoke Khumalo writing his autobiography decades ahead,but falling flat as a concept.

The show?s glittering PR misleads you into believing it is an evocative account of growing up in an era populated by gangsters, Afros and platform heels, juxtaposed with intense political turmoil, like, for instance, Chris van Wyk?s memoir Shirley, Goodness and Mercy which translated smoothly into a stage format ? filled with easy humour while not shying away from brutal political and social realities.

Khumalo?s play could so easily have been a warm, witty and at times hard-hitting depiction of what shaped the young township boy into the man. It could have served as an inspiration to other budding young journalists out there; a reminder that persistence and a belief in oneself can overcome any odds.

But in its bid to properly cover the protagonist?s younger years faithfully, it sacrifices colour and flavour for narrative fact and, in its current stage incarnation is a wasted opportunity.